Last Sunday, I drove to California State Prison in Folsom to visit Travis Christian (BB8099) for the third time.

Every visit is the same and different. The visitor sign-in room was empty with just a couple of us signing in but, when I boarded the shuttle, it was packed. I found a seat in the last row. A small boy, wearing brand new black and white sneakers, sat two seats away from me and stared. And stared. I felt his dark brown eyes boring into me. “Hi. What’s your name?” I asked.

“Junior,” he replied.

“I like your shoes, Junior,” I said.

“See my shirt? “ he asked.

Everything — shirts, pants, shoes — looked new and he looked very handsome.

I got off the shuttle at the third shuttle stop. Three women and three adorable little kids got off with me. All were dressed up to see Daddy. I checked in at the visitor’s desk and waited for Travis. Every visiting table was taken, unlike last month when the prison was on a lock down.

Travis entered the room. We hugged and sat down at our assigned table. I’m learning and I asked right away, “Are you hungry?”

“I’m starving. I didn’t eat breakfast.”

Travis selected a hamburger from the vending machine. We’d go back later to buy a pizza and a Hershey’s chocolate bar. Travis was really hungry. At the microwave a guard came over to us. “You can’t touch the microwave,” he told Travis. “Your friend will have to heat your sandwich for you. This is where drugs get passed.”

Travis seemed different to me. His legs were shaking and he furrowed his brows when he spoke. “They took me off one of my meds. I hardly slept at all last night. I was fighting with the devil. I wanted to call out Jesus’s name and I couldn’t.”

“What do you mean, Travis, ‘fighting with the devil?’”

“I was thinking about all my faults and how I let Jesus down. It’s very lonely in here and God is my only friend. I can’t let him down.”

We talked about how the med change (he’s been taken off Abilify cold turkey) might be causing these thoughts. Travis sees his doctor once a month. I asked him if he could request to see him sooner. He said he couldn’t do that. Later, I asked a guard the same question. He said prisoners could ask to see their doctors more often.

I brought five family photos to show Travis and three samples of my book cover — a white one, a gray one, and a blue-green one. “Which one do you like, Travis? Which one draws you in?”

Without hesitation Travis said, “I like the gray one. It tells me your story is going to have some gravitas to it.”

During our two-and-one-half hour visit, lulls in the conversation popped up. Travis yawned and appeared distracted. We watched a little girl run around squealing and laughing because her daddy was chasing her. Travis said, “She’s so cute.”

“Do you wish you had children, Travis?”

“No. I wouldn’t want to bring them into this situation. I want to have a wife.”

Travis mentioned a couple of cards he’d received from some of the blog readers. “I read them over and over. I wrote back but I don’t think they’ve picked up the mail.”

I asked Travis what he’s looking forward to this coming week. He puzzled a few moments. “My mom’s coming up Sunday. Church. Being with God.”

We took a photo of the two of us standing in front of a Christmas tree. Travis is going to paste his copy on his cell wall with some adhesive from a tube of toothpaste. I’m going to scotch tape my copy to my refrigerator.

“I think of you everyday, Travis, and send you mental hugs. I hope you can feel them.”

Sunday evening I texted with Travis’s mother, Kathy. She’s concerned about him, too. “The doctor won’t talk to me,” she said. “I leave messages but no one calls back. I’ve left three messages. I hope they’ll check on him soon. When he talks about the devil he gets into trouble. He thinks someone is trying to hurt him and he gets into fights. Then he’s sent to solitary.”

Kathy gave me three phone numbers. I called all of them — one to a prison ombudsman, one to a patient health care hotline for family and friends, and one to a generic corrections and rehabilitation line. I said, “I’m a family friend. I visit Travis Christian (BB8099) once a month. I visited him yesterday. He seemed different and I’m concerned about his med change. He had trouble sleeping Saturday night, his legs were shaking, and he talked about Jesus and the devil. I hope someone checks on him before he gets more wound up.”

I left the messages on Monday morning. So far, no one’s called me back.

You can write to Travis at the following address:Travis Christian BB8099B-1-211C.S.P. - SACP.O. Box 290066Represa, CA 95671

See posts about my previous visits with Travis:11/15: My November Visit with Travis10/17: Going To California State Prison to Meet Travis10/18: Talking With Travis

My story is pretty long and spans generations. My dad was sexually abused by an uncle beginning at the age of three until he was about 13. At age 17, this uncle died and my dad began having episodes of anxiety. In reality, my dad was experiencing manic episodes followed by severe depression.

By the 1980s, he married my mom and had three children. I was four the first time I witnessed my dad hallucinate. He was convinced my baby brother was a demon. He held him up by his feet and told my mother he had to kill him. My older brother escaped to a neighbor’s house and called for help. I watched from a window as he punched my mother in the face. Police struggled to restrain my father and take him away. He went to Greystone Hospital in New Jersey where he was diagnosed as manic depressive.

My dad’s “episodes,” as we called them, happened many times throughout my young childhood. Most of them were violent but only in the sense that he saw demons and was attempting to protect people from the demons.

In 1992, my dad has another episode. My parents were divorced and my younger brother and I were spending the weekend with him. The visit was supposed to be supervised by my grandfather, but the family knew something was off. They told us to leave. I locked my brother and myself in a bathroom until my aunt arrived. Later that day, my dad called my mom to tell her my brother was a ghost. She persuaded my dad to bring us to my grandparents house where she met us.

Allison’s father and grandmother

We had one last Sunday family dinner. My grandmother made her famous sauce and everyone pleaded with my dad to go to the hospital. He refused. There was nothing anyone could do. The next day, he went back to my grandparents’ house and asked to be taken to the hospital. My grandfather had one errand to run before he took him. He was gone 15 minutes. When he came home, he found my father foaming at the mouth standing over my grandmother’s lifeless body. He shouted “The queen demon is dead.”

My dad was found “not guilty” by reason of insanity and moved to the Greystone Psychiatric Hospital where he spent over a decade. He was then released on what is essentially parole for the mentally ill. He first transitioned into living with my aunt and, eventually, into his own apartment, but his illness was not curable. He continued to cycle through episodes. He spent the better part of another decade at Ancora Psychiatric Hospital in New Jersey.

As I came into adulthood, I became an advocate for care for my dad. I also advocated for the court to keep monitoring him for his safety and for the safety of all around him. Many times doctors refused to talk to me because of the HIPAA law. They’d listen to the signs I was seeing then tell me, "He doesn’t seem dangerous to us.” In 2012, after six months of communicating with his doctor to no avail, the doctor called to tell me, “Your father body-slammed me, stripped himself naked, and ran down the highway.” My father was eventually diagnosed with bipolar III disorder and schizoaffective disorder. He spent another five years away. Our story is sad and complicated and layered. It scarred my family.

My older brother turned to drugs. He had six children, by as many women, and was incarcerated for felony domestic assault. My husband and I adopted his youngest son at the age of nine but we were too late. He had been so traumatized that he was unable to function in our house. We had intense in-home therapy for four years. The safety of my own children was paramount. My nephew was Baker Acted (involuntarily committed) in Florida four times in one month for suicidal ideations. One time, a deputy came to the house and told me, “You just need to handle him better. This seems like a family issue.”

My nephew became violent in our home and was eventually removed in cuffs. The state did nothing to help us. The paper wrote a story about us. Nothing changed. Eventually, the court accepted our surrender of parental rights and put my nephew in a group home.

Our family has been knocked down so many times by the failures in the system. We have advocated for help. For change. For a better system. We’ve gotten no where. I believe families should have the right to discuss mental health issues with doctors and therapists even if it goes against what the mentally ill person wants. I believe in continuity of care, from therapist to therapist, which rarely happens. I believe in better training for our officers, teachers, and hospital staff. I believe in common sense laws that could save lives and protect our mentally ill loved ones as well.

Note: After two years in care, Allison’s nephew is healing. He’s receiving treatment and learning to cope with the trauma he’s endured.

I had a heart attack a couple of weeks ago. I spent five minutes in the ER, got a blood draw, and within fifteen minutes, was on my way to catheterization and other treatments.

My friends know where I'm about to go with this. My non-friends don't. So let me tell you something you don't know or even care about.

If I'd had a brain attack, I’d still be sitting in the ER about to be dumped. I’d be given a shot to calm my delirium, a rather scared young nurse would watch me warily from the other side of the room, and my family would be lied to about bed availability.

E-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y, I’d be told to leave the hospital — still in psychosis and untreated — and would be placing myself, my loved ones, and complete strangers in imminent danger of harm or death.

For multiple reasons I’ve struggled with my persistent grief today. I apologize in advance to those of you who have lost your children to these diseases in one way or another.

Our 36-year-old son, who has bipolar 1 with psychotic features, lives with us. I think my sadness started while I was putting ornaments on our tree and seeing all the ones with his name written on them. His younger sisters are both married (one with children) and have taken their heirloom ornaments to their homes. I sat through a service at our episcopal church and reflected on how so many of my son’s high school peers are married with active families. Even our associate priest is younger than our son.

Here, at home, my son finally opened a letter from his Medicaid supplemental plan that had been sitting on a table for a week. He saw that the payment for his last psychiatrist appointment was being denied. He was already feeling very depressed and this sent him into a state of agitation even though we promised to call both the insurers and the doctor to get things figured out.

We are thankful my son is with us, that we can help him, and that he qualifies for disability and is compliant with his meds. But my heart is broken for him, day after day, with no end in sight.

We thoroughly enjoyed the play, the performers mixing with the audience, and all aspects of the musical, Nunsense. It was hilarious. Great job all of you.

Something happened at the performance I think you’ll find interesting. At the beginning of the show, the actress, Sister Mary Hubert, asked, “Is anyone in the audience Catholic?”

My husband of one year raised his hand. Sister Mary Hubert chatted with him and said, “We’re giving you a medallion of the Patron Saint of Mental Illness — Saint Dymphna.” As Sister Mary Amnesia (I do love that name) handed him the medallion, Sister Mary Hubert declared, “You will be safe from mental illness.”

The audience laughed but my husband and I laughed harder. You see, my dear husband spent many years in an institution because of a mental disorder. This December, he will have been out of that institution for three years. His experience molded him into a most amazing man who has unlimited love and a caring attitude toward his fellow human beings.

The play with the medallion was a heartwarming, hilarious, and unforgettable event for us. Hope our story makes you smile.

Follow up:

We recently attended The Miracle Worker at same community theater. I was introduced to the president of the theater’s board of directors. I asked her if she had received a letter regarding a particular performance of Nunsense. Her face lit up. She asked, “Did you write that letter?” I replied, “Yes.” She told me how excited everyone was about the letter and that it was read to all the cast members and to the board. I said, “The gentleman mentioned in the letter is in attendance. Would you like to meet him?” She replied, “Yes, and the actress who spoke with him from the stage is here, too.”

The woman went to find her cast member, Sister Mary Hubert, while I told my husband he was wanted. The three of them met and my husband said, “I have bipolar disorder.”

Sister Mary Hubert replied, “Me, too.”

Such broad grins, warm hearts, and teary eyes that night.

There are some new beginnings and happy endings. Have hope that there will be more. This blog is a start in the right direction. Thank you so much, Dede, and all who post.

November 8 was our son Tyler's 20th birthday. We were unable to say “Happy Birthday” as he was in lock down for five days. Days later, we drove a little over an hour to Richard Handlon Correctional Prison in Ionia, Michigan. (Tyler is number #113697.) We had cake with him. He made a cake from two honeybuns, smashed peanut M&M’s, and a melted Snickers bar on top. He’s inventive. We sang “Happy Birthday” to him.

He’s still our boy. Few mention him. Our heart breaks for what we’ve lost. This is Tyler’s third year away for his birthday. Next, he will miss Thanksgiving and Christmas. He hasn't been given counseling, education, training, or the proper medications. He’s been beaten up four times since he was incarcerated.

Why couldn't mental health professionals keep him in an inpatient psychiatric hospital? For the love of God there was no good reason to release our son from the hospital. His safety was compromised. No one was responsible. He was nearly shot at for trespassing. He was an inpatient five days prior to his arrest. He was delusional and hearing voices. What is wrong with this country? Why is there no long-term treatment?

This is a brain disease, ya all. Maybe we should start locking up every grandma and grandpa who is violent or disorderly from Alzheimer's. Serious mental illness is a disease. It is prodromal to Alzheimer's. Prisons are corporations. Their goal is money. They need prisoners. Caught up in the system — it’s a real thing.

We are receiving a criminal justice system education. Months are now years. One caseworker, Ms. Williams, calls many people names like dumb, retarded, idiots and pedophiles. Everyone in Ty's facility is either mentally ill or autistic. She told Tyler, a 19-year-old kid who was only supposed to be in prison for two months, “You’re doing 15 years.” It leaves me to wonder how many have given up from her words.

Ty’s not even provided an inhaler for asthma and chronic lung disease. He has autism and a serious mental illness. When he was in school he was never suspended. He was a target for bullies which was our main concern. Incarceration never crossed our minds. On his birthday, I sent his appeal papers certified to a judge. Hopefully, he will give him an appellate lawyer.

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Hi! Thanks for stopping by.

My goal, with Blog 1: Your Stories, is to help bring our stories of serious mental illness — and how it impacts individuals, our loved ones and our families — into mainstream discourse.

My goal, with Blog 2: My Diary, is to tell my story and my son's story - my struggle, as a mom of an adult son with serious mental illness, to somehow align both joy and sadness in my life; and Pat's brave efforts to live with bipolar disorder. I didn't know, as I was writing my diary, that I was capturing the last year of his life.

I hope, with these two blogs, we'll see increased understanding and movement toward better mental illness care. Sooner than tomorrow...

Hope you're having a good day.

Dede

DISCLAIMER: I never was or ever will be a psychiatrist or psychologist. The mental illness comments and information I post on this website and on these blogs shouldn't be taken as advice or recommendations. People in need of mental health and mental illness assistance should see their mental health/mental illness providers.

P.S. Our stories can be heartbreaking. Once a week or so I try to include a HAPPY PIC to lighten our load. If you have a HAPPY PIC (original photo or artwork) to share, please send it to me. dede@soonerthantomorrow.com

P.P.S. The opinions expressed by other writers on this blog are their own. I respect them even when/if I don't agree with them. Their stories need to be told. And heard.